


Whump, there it is...

by Lynge



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Is this Whump? I don't even know, Mentioned Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Multi, No beta we die like mne, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Witcher Tournament Massacre (The Witcher), Witcher Whump Week (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27117406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynge/pseuds/Lynge
Summary: Yeah yeah, shitty pun. You should know me by now.These brainfarts are written for the Witcher Whump Week (October 19-25, 2020)PiFo link to the topicIf you need/want a Pillowfort invite, hit me up in the comments, or via Discord: Lynge#5463I know I'm probably going to be a day late and a crown short on all of these, but I'm good with that. I also might not do all of them. Because I am that flakey.I'm treating the 2020 Witcher Whump Week as an exploration of writing short things (aka: under 1k in words).Prompts:Day 1: Survivor's GuiltDay 2: Bedside VigilDay 3: Forced to WatchDay 4: Good Intentions, Bad ResultsDay 5: EnslavedDay 6: Secret RevealedDay 7: Self-Loathing
Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir/Yura (The Witcher)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 10
Collections: Witcher Whump Week 2020





	1. Day 1: Survivor's Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place about a week after the Tournament Massacre described in the Zdrada comic/graphic novel. Yes. I'm taking liberties with canon. Do you know me by now?

Looking out over the Gwenllech, Guxart felt his heart tighten. He had left Yura with Vesemir, down in the wolf’s room. The walls around him started to suffocate him, he needed to breathe and retreated to one of the higher towers to overlook the stream of water behind the keep.

It had been a week since the tournament massacre. A week since Yura had triggered a berserker rage to get Vesemir and him out of Radowit’s dungeons. It always took her a while to sleep off the toxins needed to kickstart the rage. 

Bile rose in Guxart’s throat. He understood why Yura had woken up drenched in sweat for the past week, in some cases even screaming. He had walked past the unrecognizable husks she left behind in the dungeons when she came to retrieve the wolf and cat school witchers. None of them had commented on the slaughter.

While Yura fought her way down to the dungeons, Vesemir and Guxart had been able to see the disaster unfold in the tournament arena. They had managed to pry away a few of the stones in the outer wall. Enough to see what was going on, but nowhere near enough for either of them to get out.

Before the fighting started, Guxart had wondered who would want to imprison him and Vesemir. Seeing Treyse stand next to Radowit, he had his answer. He wished he could say it surprised him. In reality, he always knew Treyse had a hunger for power.

Guxart guessed Treyse had allied with Radowit II. As the competition was about to start and the wolf witchers were readying themselves for the tournament, Treyse gave a shrill whistle that signaled the cats to attack. The wolves didn’t know what hit them. All but one were cut down within moments. Guxart doubted he would ever be able to forget the maniacal smirk on Treyse’s face.

The Cat school lost a few of its witchers during the skirmish. The difference was that Radowit’s men had cut down the cats. As soon as the fight broke out, the regent gave his own signal, and his footsoldiers descended on the witchers, being indiscriminate about who they plunged their weapons into. Treyse had stopped smirking. 

They had gotten back to Kaer Morhen within two days. The wolves’ den felt empty after the massacre. Of the group selected to compete in the tournament, only one made it home next to Vesemir. The young white-haired witcher had been silent on their way back, mourning the death of his friends. 

Riding back, Guxart had sat behind Yura, holding her in place on his horse. Vesemir was riding beside them. He had told Guxart that he didn't blame him. It hadn't helped in alleviating the gnawing pain in his belly.

If only Guxart had spent more time at Stygga. If only he had kept an eye on Treyse. If only he hadn't agreed to participate in the tournament...

As soon as they crossed the mote and rode into the courtyard of the wolves’ keep, Guxart knew he would have to leave. He saw the glances the remaining witchers were giving him. It was just a matter of time before he, and probably all cats, would be unwelcome in the keep. That he wasn't being chased out straight away had everything to do with the challenging stare Vesemir was giving his fellow wolves.

Sitting in the tower, overlooking the stream, it was clear to Guxart what he needed to do. The only way to balance the scales even slightly was by cutting out the festering rot that had sewn the unrest. He got up and made one of the hardest decisions in his life. He had to leave Kaedwen. He had to leave Vesemir and Yura. He had to make sure the other witchers hadn't died in vain.

Descending the stairs, Guxart made up his mind. He had to confront Treyse and get the cats at Stygga back under control before they made things even worse.


	2. Day 2: Bedside Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert had never asked for this.

Waking up in the large room, Lambert was strapped down tighter than strictly neccesary on sad Albert. No way he was getting out of the restraints. He tried to move his fingers, but even those refused. He could feel the trickle of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Lambert had never asked for this.

One of the mages glided into the room. Lambert heard the rustle of his robe and smelled more of the acrid fluids they had been administering to him. When the mage came closer, he sat down next to Lambert.

“If you survive this last one, you’re almost there, boy. 

Lambert couldn’t speak. He needed to get out of his restraints. Run out of the prison the witchers had dressed up as an opportunity to do good in the world. Lambert had seen through the lie since the day he arrived at Kaer Morhen. Witchers were tools. Nothing more, everything less. Lambert had never asked for this. 

“You’re the only one left, boy.” The mage mumbled, “let’s see if you’re as strong as we suspected.”

Lambert felt bile rise in his throat. He had heard the wailing of his peers in the cavern. The audible agony before everything had gone utterly silent. Lambert guessed he was the only one left alive. Having it confirmed hit him like a Shaelmaar. All his friends were dead. None of them had asked for this. 

More rustling. More sour smells. Lambert guessed the other mages had joined them in the cavern. He could feel them rummaging around and presumably hooking up more tubes and instruments to his body. He felt some resistance in his limbs as they moved him into a position they could work with. 

Focussing all his willpower on a straightforward task, Lambert managed to open his eyes, looking straight into the watery grey eyes of the first mage that had come in. Lambert’s eyes were begging for the man to end this. To stop the others from turning him into a monster. Lambert had never asked for this.

The mage noticed Lambert’s open eyes and leaned into him curiously. “Open eyes, young whelp? More fight left in you than we thought.”

Lambert saw the other mages in the background, injecting the next set of chemicals. As soon as the plunger hit home, Lambert felt the burning hot pain jolt through his body. It was even worse than the previous solution the cocksuckers had pumped into him. His insides were on fire, and he doubted he would survive. _Better to die and ruin an entire harvest than to have one more witcher in the world._ Hot trails of tears streaked over his face. 

He felt a stabbing pain in his head as his vision blew out. He tried to scream. The older witchers had told him that the trials were painful, but your body would be blocking out most of it after the first few treatments. Lambert realized that had been a lie. A lie they told children to make them less anxious about the coming Trials. A lie that he, and his fellow trainees, had believed all too eagerly. 

The mage moved up, his bitter breath glancing over Lambert’s now overly sensitive nose. It made his stomach heave. 

“What is it, boy? Did you think we didn’t know you were fully awake and feeling everything?” The mage had a vicious smile on his lips. “Silly boy.”

Lambert had never asked for this. 


End file.
